The Maid of Orleans
by RenegadeSpiral
Summary: She was a hero, wrongfully killed in the cruelest of ways. And even then she clung proudly to her beliefs, the same ones that resulted in her death. Her memory and story would always be told, always remembered.


France choked down the beverage and turned disdainfully down at his rum. Wonderful, not even being half drunk could take away the aches that racked his body. England just wouldn't give him a break would he? It wasn't enough that he was already dealing with a civil war; England just had to come in and make matters worse. Annoyance passed through his mind as he recalled the Treaty of Troyes. England really wanted him that badly, huh? A smirk crossed over his face at the irony. He took sip from his rum and instantly spat back into the mug. Why had he come here to drink anyway? Vaucouleurs wasn't particularly known for its 'quality' alcohol…

Taking a glance around the tavern he took note of the few customers. One particular customer, a woman around her mid twenties, was making an obnoxious racket. She was sitting at a back table bawling her eyes out as a friend frantically tried to calm her down. From the bits of the conversation that France strained his ears too, he learnt that the woman had been recently widowed. The sobs died down into silent tears as the woman's friend began to coo softly and rub her hand over her back.

The widow lowered her face into her arms and clapped her hands together shakily, a rosary entwining her fingers. "Mon Dieu, mon Dieu…" He heard her struggle to spit out before she began to whisper to herself in silent prayer.

Irritated, France abruptly rose from his seat, garnering himself the attention of the few people who were still in the tavern, including the woman who had stopped mid-prayer to look up in surprise. Confused eyes looked back at him with reddened eyes. Tracks left behind from her tears glistened in the dim light of tavern. A sudden pang of guilt came over him as he looked back at her pitiful face. Sighing heavily and reaching his hand into his pocket he pulled out a small sack. He set down on the table a few coins next to a half drunken mug and walked over to the women, setting a few more down on their table, a quick nod at the owner of the tavern. "Je m'excuse. For your loss," He said with a quick glance down at the money. The women only stared back up at him, baffled by the display. France gave a gentle smile then turned to leave, ignoring the glares he could feel staring at his back coming from the other customers.

Now what was he going to do? It was still only a few hours to sunrise, and he had wasted all of the money he had brought with him on the widow and her friend. Might as well take a walk...

His eyes drifted over the various small houses and the dirt streets that should have been full of gossiping ladies, children playing, men hard at work... not just the occasional straggler. Even though it was a small town, it was still a Sunday. People were supposed to be out and enjoying themselves. Irritation crept back into his thoughts as he recalled the widow and her friend.

_Mon Dieu, mon Dieu..._

He couldn't help but chuckle as her words echoed through his mind. Mon Dieu, huh? Those were his lines. My God, my God... as if. If there was a God, this wouldn't be happening. This God forsaken war... No prayers ever went answered, none of their cries heard. It was just too sad to believe in a God this cruel. Something like God was what people clung to in times of desperation, looking for something for support, in hopes that their prayers would be answered and 'God' would grant them a miracle. But years had taught him that miracles did not happen, their cries would not be heard, and their prayers would not be answered, least of all by some so called 'God'.

Folding his arms he let himself lean on a bench that was facing a fountain in the center of town, letting himself be lost in the water's flow as the sound of it hitting the water below rang through his ears. If there really was a God, he sure seemed to have it in for him. If he could get through this mess, then maybe God did exist. The corners of his mouth settled into a sad smile with the sad reality that there was no way that would be happening anytime soon.

He didn't realize he had had company until he heard a condescending laugh, breaking him from his trance. Raising his head he focused on a nobleman seated atop a horse and a young peasant woman through the water. The woman seemed to be trying to ask him something, but every time she opened her mouth to speak the nobleman would cut her off.

"Mademoiselle, you have been following me around all day, I am sorry but I am unable to grant you your request." He said, making no effort to hide the sarcasm in his voice.

She didn't let it bother her. "Monsieur, I _implore _you. I simply must be allowed to speak with him, it is my duty monsieur," She said, retaining a calm, polite composure that surprised France. If someone were to talk to him like that, he wouldn't hesitate to return the treatment. He remembered the woman from the tavern and noted the sharp contrast in her behavior to the woman in front of him now, despite the obvious age difference between them. It was impressive.

The noble did not seem as impressed. He let out a long sigh and looked back at her, eyes begging to be left alone. "I am sorry, but I cannot help you. Now if you please I must return home." She looked like she was going to retort, but was silenced as the nobleman raised his hand. "I do not want to see you again anytime in the near future, are we clear?"

There was a pause before she gave a nod, and France watched as the nobleman rod off. Once the man was out of sight, the young woman let out a defeated sigh and sat down on the bench opposite France, fiddling with something in her hand and muttering to herself.

Perhaps the day was not a total loss after all.

France stretched his arms and made his way around the fountain, once again resting his arms on the back of a bench.

"What ever is the matter, ma chère?" He purred, careful not to come across too strong.

No response.

"Bonjour? Young miss?" He tried again.

The woman was still muttering silently to herself.

France leaned his head over the bench and promptly frowned. Lifting his finger he then proceeded to poke the woman in the back of the neck, causing the woman to stir and turn to look at him, confusion written all over her face.

"Praying in a place like this will only result in an empty pocket, or worse ma chère." He said with a nod to the woman's hand, which had been clasped gently around a rosary, much like the woman in the tavern had been doing earlier. "I was asking if everything was alright."

"Oh, I'm sorry," She turned back to her rosary and breezed through the rest of her prayers, finishing up with a quick 'Amen' and setting it gently into her pocket. She turned back to France, who for the first time got a good look at her face.

He was dumbstruck. Her face was completely ordinary. Plain hair, dull smile... nothing special, not at all. But her eyes...they pierced through him like an arrow, all the while remaining pure, gentle, honest... It was as if he could suddenly trust everything about her. She looked like an angel. It made him shift uncomfortably.

"Monsieur? Did you need something?"

"Hm? Oh, je m'excuse, I couldn't help but notice your chat with that nobleman earlier, who were you wanting to see?" He asked, brought back to reality.

Her stare was suddenly off of him and focused on her lap, her face blushing furiously. "...the Dauphin."

Unable to hold himself back, France reared his head back and let out a howl of laughter. The woman turned and frowned disappointedly at him. "Please don't laugh, I am completely serious."

"Sorry, sorry...and who is it that has business with the Dauphin?" He said after taking a minute to catch his breath, a playful tone hidden in his voice.

She picked up on it and shot him a stern glare. "La pucelle," She emphasized, folding her arms across her chests and keeping her eye on France.

France chuckled and adjusted his position, "I see, and why does 'La pucelle' want to see the Dauphin so urgently?"

Her eyes softened again as she let her arms fall back down to her side. "France is our country, our homeland. Not some land to be picked apart by the English or the Burgundians, our King should be our own, not some English fancy-pants who just wants to turn us into another of their colonies."

He would've laughed, but he was too caught up in her words. Who exactly was this girl?

"And so I want to lead him..." She continued on, eyes glistening as her face filled with a serene sense of peace. "I am going to lead the Dauphin into Reims and have him coronated as our king, like he should be."

And she lost him again. France quickly turned around and clasped a hand over his mouth, the only thing preventing him from bursting out into laughter once more. He could feel her disappointed look on him as he heard her sigh. "It's alright, you may laugh. I forgive you."

"No, no..." He began, stifling another laugh. "What sort of gentleman would I be if I laughed at a beautiful young woman while she was upset. So why does 'La pucelle' feel she has to lead monsieur Dauphin to Reims for his coronation."

"Because I was told to..."

He stared at her again. Her eyes were on the fountain, but she was looking somewhere else, as if she was fondly recalling a pleasant memory. "By whom?"

She closed her eyes and placed her hands over her heart. "Saint Michael. Saint Catherine, Saint Margaret..."

A frown formed across France's face. "You should not say things like that, ma chère,"

She did not waver. "I only say it because it's true. It is wrong to lie, especially about something like that. The lord is my Shepard, of nothing I shall want."

France scoffed and turned his gaze back to the fountain. "There is no God in this world, just those that wish to make others suffer."

Her smile vanished and she turned to look at him, sympathy for him coming from her angel-like eyes. "But that is just too sad..."

"Ma chère, if there was a God, why has he forsaken us? Why has he left us to rot in this pitiful state, condemning us to English rule? Why..." He trailed off as he watched the young woman kneel in front of him and gently wrap her hands around his, staring up at him with an expression that France couldn't quite place.

"He has never forsaken us, we are his children, and he loves us and shows it through small miracles everyday. He is always reaching out to us monsieur, you just have to open your eyes and your heart and let him." She said with a gentle smile before slowly withdrawing her hands.

Who was this woman? What was it about her that made him want to desperately cling to those words? They weren't any different then the words that his pastors would speak at Sunday mass, but why had the way she said them make him want to actually listen?

Blinking back to reality, he noticed that she was starting to leave. Quickly, he thought hard about what he was about to do. "Ah, ma chère?"

She stopped mid step and turned to look at him once more with her angelic face. "Oui?"

"If you wish to get through to monsieur nobleman, I recommend going to see Jean de Metz and Bertrand de Poulengy, they may be able to help you get him to listen."

Her face painted itself a gentle smile, "Que Dieu vous bénisse, monsieur...?"

"Francis Bonnefoy"

"Then Que Dieu vous bénisse, monsieur Bonnefoy, you will be in my prayers."

"It was no trouble at all, la pucelle," he said with a gentle smile.

The young woman gave him another one of her smiles before giving him a small curtsy. "My name is d'Arc. Jeanne d'Arc. It was a pleasure talking with you monsieur. Merci beaucoup,"

"The pleasure was mine, mademoiselle d'Arc, I hope to see you again."

She gave a small wave and turned to leave. "Adieu,"

And she was gone, leaving behind a baffled France. What had compelled him to do that? To tell her to pursue her foolish quest? He stood up straight stretching his arms, and it was then that he noticed that she had put something into his hands. Examining them for a moment, a smile spread across his face.

Jeanne d'Arc, huh? If things were to go the way she wanted them too, then there was no doubt that he would meet her again. He turned on his way, whistling a small tune and placing the rosary gently in his pocket.

* * *

And that's Chapter one! I'm going to try my hand again at another long fic, but I'll need lots of encouragement and bribes from you readers, otherwise I won't be motivated to continue. AKA, Reviews. Faves/watches are nice, but there is nothing better than getting to hear about what somebody thinks of your work. I find a lot of fun to write about Jeanne, mainly because she's my patron saint, but that's just me

French notes! Please ignore my sloppy French if anything is incorrect, the only thing I didn't take from Google translate was 'la pucelle' and some other basic stuff.

La Pucelle – 'The virgin' When Jeanne tried to talk with Baudricourt -the nobleman she was talking to- when asked what her name was she would proclaim 'La pucelle' to warn any men who had intentions of sleeping with her to stay away, because she had promise the voices of the Saints that she would remain a virgin.

Ma chère – 'My dear', the masculine form of this would be 'Mon cher'

Monsieur – Mr.

Mademoiselle – Miss

Merci beaucoup – Thank you very much

Que Dieu vous bénisse – May God Bless you

Je m'excuse – I apologize

Oui – Yes

And that's it! Wish me luck! And if anyone finds any problems with my historical accuracy, then please, tell me! I promise I don't bite!


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